


Agape (Love's Addicts)

by elixia13



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-29
Updated: 2010-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-06 19:24:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elixia13/pseuds/elixia13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder longs for Scully and for the closeness they shared in Redux II. He considers the risks involved if they should get involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Agape (Love's Addicts)

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, this is based on a poem by Galway Kinnell.

"I want to touch her.  
Once. Again. I will wait  
if I must. Outwait.  
Wait so long she will age,  
pull even, pass."  
\--from Agape by Galway Kinnell

The only good thing about that terribly time was that I could touch her.   
Somehow, as the line blurred between life and death, the line between us  
blurred as well. And, now, I find we've solidified into separate bodies again,  
separate beings, and I still want to touch her. Just once, but once again. I  
will wait if I must. I'll outwait time, outwait our youth. I see already the  
wrinkles etching themselves on her face, small lines raying out from her mouth,  
pointing to the place I want to kiss.

I wonder how many of those lines were put there by me. Her pursed mouth as I  
explained one of my theories. Her mouth smiling tightly all those times I woke  
up in the hospital with her hovering over me gently. It pains me to think that  
I've hurt her in any way, taken away that innocence she had when we met. But  
something in me is also satisfied to see myself written on her face. To know  
that I am a part of her as she is a part of me.

Agape, I read once, is defined as love that is spiritual in nature, surpassing  
the sexual, and I tell myself that is what I feel for her. Her sister,  
Melissa, saw it before she died, saw it when we sat in that hospital waiting  
for Scully to choose between life and death. She saw my soul, saw that it was  
Scully's and hers was mine. Missy knew that without Scully I was a dead man.

And yet I'm drawn back to that definition. Why must the spirit and the body be  
seen as separate entities? I've seen enough, god knows, over the years to  
refute that. And, I have to admit, I want to hold her, in the flesh, all  
night. Her skin like the petals of one perfect white iris closing over me, the  
flashing in her eyes as she looks at me. Clearly, it's more than her spirit I  
want.

And yet her spirit enthralls me. I wonder at her sometimes. Was she scared  
when I stood on the precipice at the edge of her beliefs, beckoning her to go  
forward with me? Did she fear I saw an illusion, that if she passed the point  
I stood on she would be left alone in the darkness of confusion? And if I  
died? She has gone to a place, now, where her mother, her brothers, cannot be  
with her. If I died, she would have to walk alone, at least for as long as it  
look her to find her way back to them. Back to the reality they live in.

And the chance of a normal life? All the love addicts, these spouses and  
lovers, lie back, sip their civilized drinks, listen to their Mars and Venus  
tapes and look at each other with soft eyes. They try to cure us sometimes, as  
though a touch, an evening in their world can bestow the kiss of normality on  
us.

Everyone I knew from the university, her friends too I imagine, has found this  
place. I can see them all, married or whatever, kissing succinctly at 6:30  
home from work. Sharing quiet evenings while we chase nightmares down poorly  
lit alleys. As though they've drank from some cup I've never even tasted.

And what if we drank too? Met in one perfect moment beyond the spirit or body  
alone, melding the two in the flame of one candle? And what if it fell apart?   
In fear and longing we could fall into pieces. If she stood before me and told  
me to understand, to let my love go . . .

And I couldn't do it? It's not really a question. What, then, put a gun to my  
head? And shoot her into shards as well. Or if she died, could I understand  
that? To see her dissolving in dry sunlight in a hospital bed? I don't want  
to lie in a double bed knowing that the other side is empty, that the one who  
moved beside me is still. The half of my heart that lives, filled with a  
corpse.

But I know I could let myself sink into that love. I could smile and sit up  
half the night, laugh. Forget about the pain gone before, the nights when my  
nightmares went uncomforted. Forget that not all who are out there rejoice in  
love like this. Perhaps, for now, I shall hold it before me. For if our  
bodies never break upon each other we can never crumble. I will wait.   
Outwait. Her youth passes, she will soon pull even and perhaps even pass me.   
One day, we will touch again.


End file.
